Donald Westlake: Jimmy The Kid

They all nodded. Dortmunder said, “But where do we come in?”

Kelp hesitated; this was the moment. The gray armchair hung like a teardrop in his peripheral vision. “We do it!” he said.

They all looked at him. Murch’s Mom said, irritably, “What was that?”

It was out now, and a sudden rush of excitement carried Kelp along on its crest. Crouching like a surfer in the curl, he leaned toward his audience and said, “Don’t you see? That goddam book’s a blueprint, a step-by-step master plan! All we do is follow it! They got away with it in the book, and we’ll get away with it right here!”

They were staring at him openmouthed. He stared back, fired with the vision of his idea. “Don’t you see? We do the caper in the book! We do the book!”

DORTMUNDER just sat there. The others, as they began to catch hold of Kelp’s idea, starting making exclamations, asking questions, making comments, but Dortmunder just sat there, heavily, and thought about it.

Murch said, “I get it! You mean we do everything they do in the book.”

“That’s right!”

May said, “But it’s a book about a kidnapping. It isn’t a robbery, it’s a kidnapping.”

“It works the same way,” Kelp told her. “What difference does it make, it’s still a caper, and every detail is laid right out there for us. How to pick the kid, how to get the kid, how to get the payoff—”

May said, “But, you can’t kidnap a little child! That’s mean. I’m surprised at you.”

Kelp said, “No, it isn’t. We wouldn’t hurt the kid. I mean, we wouldn’t hurt him anyway, but they make a whole big point about that in the book, how if they give the kid back unhurt the cops won’t try so hard to get them later on. Wait, I’ll find the place, I’ll read it to you.”

Kelp reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a copy of the book. Dortmunder watched him, saw him leafing through it looking for the place, and still didn’t say any. thing. He just sat there and thought about it.

Dortmunder was not a natural reader, but his times in. side prison walls had shown him the usefulness of reading when you’re waiting for a certain number of days to go by. Reading can speed the days a little, and that’s all to the good. So all in all it had been a fairly familiar experience for him, reading a book, though strange to be doing it in a place with no bars over the window. And also strange to be doing it for some other reason outside the act of reading itself. All the way through he had kept wondering what Kelp had in mind, had even distracted himself from the story here and there while trying to guess what the purpose of it all could be, and the truth had never occurred to him. A blueprint. Kelp wanted them to read the book because it was a blueprint.

Now Kelp was leafing back and forth through his copy, trying to find the part where it had said not to kill the child they were kidnapping. “I know it’s here somewhere,” he was saying.

“We all read it,” Murch’s Mom said. “Don’t start reciting it to us, like some Traffic Court judge.”

“Okay,” Kelp said, and closed the book again. Standing there, holding it, looking like some kind of paperback preacher, he said, “You all agree with me, don’t you? You see what a natural this is, what a winner this is.”

“There’s a lot of driving in it,” Murch said. “I noticed that right away.”

“Plenty for you to do,” Kelp told him eagerly.

“And they got the roads right,” Murch said. “I mean, the guy that wrote the book, he got all the roads right.”

May said, “But you’re still talking about kidnapping a child, and I still say that’s a mean, terrible thing to do.’

“Not if you do it like this book says.”

Murch’s Mom said, “I suppose you’d want May and me to take care of this brat, like the women in the book.”

Kelp said, “Well, we’re not talking about a baby or anything, you don’t have to change anybody’s diaper or anything like that. We’re talking about a kid maybe ten, twelve years old.”

“That’s very sexist,” Murch’s Mom said.

Kelp looked blank. “Hah?”

“Wanting May and me to take care of the kid. Role-assumption. It’s sexist.”

“Goddammit, Mom,” Murch said, “you’ve been off with those consciousness-raising ladies again.”

“I drive a cab,” she said. “I’m no different from a man.” Kelp said, “You want me to take care of the kid?” He seemed honestly bewildered.

Murch’s Mom snorted. “What does a man know about taking care of a child?”

“But—”

“I just wanted you to know,” she said. “It was sexist, and I wanted you to know it was sexist.”

“And I still say it’s mean,” May said. Beside her, Dortmunder took a deep breath, but he didn’t say any. thing. He was watching Kelp, listening to everybody and thinking.

Kelp said to May, “How could it be mean? With you and Murch’s Mom to take care of the kid, who’s gonna treat him mean? We follow what the book says, he’ll never be in any danger, and he won’t even get scared. He’ll probably be glad he doesn’t have to go to school for a couple days.”

Dortmunder rose slowly to his feet. “Kelp,” he said.

Kelp looked at him, alert, bright-eyed, eager to be of assistance.

“You and me,” Dortmunder said, “we’ve worked together a few times over the years, am I right?”

Kelp said, “Now, you’re not gonna start dredging up the past, blaming me for—”

“I’m not talking about blame,” Dortmunder said. “I’m just saying we worked together.”

“Well, sure,” Kelp said. “That’s right, sure, we’re longtime partners.”

“Now, Stan, here,” Dortmunder said, “he’s worked with us, too. What his job is, he drives, am I right?”

“I’m the best,” Murch said.

“That’s right,” Kelp said. He seemed a little confused, but still bright-eyed and eager to please. “Stan drives, and he’s the best.”

“And what do I do?” Dortmunder asked him.

“You?” Kelp moved his hands vaguely. “You know what you do,” he said. “You run it.”

“I run it. I make the plan, isn’t that right?”

“Well, sure,” Kelp said.

“Now,” Dortmunder said, and his voice was beginning to rise just a little, “are you saying all those things that went wrong in the past are my fault?”

“What? No no, I never—”

“You’re going to bring in a plan?”

“But—”

“You don’t like the way I do plans, is that it? You think there’s something wrong with the plans I work out?”

“No, I—”

“You think some book writer’s gonna do you a better plan than I am, is that what you come here to say?”

“Dortmun—”

“You can get right out of here,” Dortmunder said, and pointed a big-knuckled finger at the door.

“Just let me—”

“You and that Richard Smart or whatever the hell his name is,” Dortmunder raged, “the two of you can get the hell out of here, and don’t come back!”

MAY had put together a special dinner, all of Dortmunder’s favorites: Salisbury steak, steamed green beans, whipped potatoes from a mix, enriched white bread, beer in the can, and boysenberry Jell-O for dessert. On the table were lined up the ketchup, the A-1 sauce, the Worcestershire sauce, the salt and pepper and sugar, the margarine, and the can of evaporated milk. She had the entrée done by midnight, and put it in the oven to keep warm till Dortmunder got home at quarter to four.

From the slope of his shoulders when he walked in she knew things hadn’t gone well. Maybe she should wait, and broach the subject some other time? No; if she waited for John Dortmunder to be in a good mood they’d both of them be very, very old before she ever said anything.